


On A Night in Nassau

by KChan88



Series: Sailing By Orion's Star: Deleted Scenes [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantine and Bahorel share a moment on the beach in Nassau and Courfeyrac loses a bet. </p><p>A small contribution for Les Mis Rare Pairs Week, featuring Bahorel/Fantine in the Sailing By Orion's Star Pirate AU Verse. </p><p>Putting this in a series because I may add more unseen scenes from the main fic later on!</p>
            </blockquote>





	On A Night in Nassau

**Author's Note:**

> Fantine mentions being a "Maroon" here. Jamaican Maroons were a community of escaped African slaves living in the mountainous regions of Jamaica, the first of which were likely slaves who escaped from the Spanish when Jamaica was being overtaken by British forces.

Bahorel's walking toward the tavern and grumbling to himself about the endless heat when someone much smaller seizes him by the shirt-sleeve, pulling him into a grove of palm trees.

"Well to what do I owe this pleasure, madam?" Bahorel asks, grinning when he sees Fantine.

"You saw me an hour ago Bahorel," Fantine says, though there's a smile flickering on her lips. “Where’s your coat? I hardly ever see you parted from it. Eccentric fashion sense though you possess.”

"Yes but not like this, alone in a grove of trees,” Bahorel replies. “As far as my coat goes, unfortunately it’s too damn hot for it today. And excuse me, but my fashion sense can hardly be called _eccentric_ when Prouvaire is around. He managed to have Chantal make him a bright purple coat, of all things. Imagine. And he says my waistcoats are rash.”

“I don’t really need to imagine,” Fantine says, chuckling. “Given I see his coat every day of my life, nearly.”

“So you do,” Bahorel says, leaning back against one of the palm trees. “So. Care to tell me why you pulled me into this grove of trees?”

He winks at her, receiving a whack in the arm for his trouble.

“Ow,” he complains. “You have an arm, don’t you? Should have known that, I’ve seen it.”

"Has anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?" Fantine asks, resting one hand on her hip.

"Certainly," Bahorel replies, sounding proud. "My mother, my sisters all the time, Courfeyrac. Sometimes Joly when I won't sit still for him to wrap something up. Though to his credit I get banged up probably more than I should."

Fantine sighs, looking at him intently for a moment, a decision forming in her expression, but she looks fond, and Bahorel feels his heart beat a little faster.

"I'm going to do something that is probably against my better judgement,” Fantine says. “And it involves you.”

"I've heard that before too," Bahorel answers. "In fact I..."

He's cut off by the press of Fantine's lips to his own, eyes widening in surprise for a moment until he smiles into it. It's quick, and Fantine jumps back, biting her lip.

"That was forward," she says, looking apologetic.

"Forward is fine with me, darling, if the result is you kissing me,” Bahorel says, running his fingers over his lips, a happy bubble forming in his chest.

Fantine flinches at the endearment, and Bahorel frowns, concerned at what he’s miscalculated.

"Please don't..." she hesitates. “Don't call me that. If you don’t mind."

"My apologies," Bahorel says. "Too soon."

"No," Fantine says, shaking her head. "It's just.” She pauses, a heaviness resting in her eyes. “Felix used to call me that. I'd prefer not to think of him generally, and especially not with..." she moves her hand back and forth between them. "Whatever this is between us."

"I understand," Bahorel says, growing serious. He looks at her, the curly hair she keeps back with a bandana grown longer now and falling past her shoulders, that intelligent, rebellious, compassionate gleam in her eyes, and he thinks that if he's honest, he's already a little bit in love with her. "We can do this however you like. And if you feel uncomfortable, we can go back to friends, just like before. We’re crew-mates first. And this second. That is, if you want whatever…this is,” he says, mimicking her earlier hand gesture.

She steps forward again, and Bahorel thinks fleetingly that she holds the same intensity in her eyes that he often sees in Enjolras’ or Provaire’s, and at her permission, he slides a hand against her cheek, kissing her again, but briefly.

They break apart, and he holds up his hands, tentatively putting them against hers and lacing their fingers together. Hers are so small in comparison, but he knows they don't lack any power when she holds her dirk in her hand.

"Can I ask you something?" Bahorel says, knowing it's no small thing that she trusts him with this. He knows enough about what Tholomyes put her through to have wished more than once that he could punch the man all the way back to France.

Fantine, nods, smiling at him again, and the brightness it holds feels like a treasure.

"Why do you want this?" he asks. "I mean of course we've teased and even Courfeyrac admits I have the nicest hair next to Enjolras, but..."

Fantine rolls her eyes, letting go of one of his hands and putting a finger against his lips.

"Well it's definitely not because you have discretion," she says, quirking a single eyebrow. "But you make me laugh. You’re generous with everyone. You’re fiercely loyal if someone’s earned it. You appreciate my duties with our crews and my partnership with Valjean. You appreciate that I'm a mother to Cosette. We have so much in common that we both know the things that must come first." She runs a finger across his cheek the way she'd done a few weeks ago after the mock trial game they played on the ship. "At first I thought you were just flirting with me because you flirt. But you get this look in your eyes, you know."

"Do I?" he asks, feeling himself blushing.

"Sometimes when you're watching Prouvaire write in his notebook. Or after you spar with Enjolras or when you’re teaching Gavroche about the cannons,” Fantine says. "And Cosette noticed it when you looked at me. She encouraged me, actually. In all these years, there's been no time for considering this sort of thing. But then there you were. And here I was. And something about it made sense.”

“She’s a clever woman, that Cosette,” Bahorel says. “Like her mother.”

“Already flattering me, are you?” Fantine asks, poking him the chest.

“No flattery here,” Bahorel says, raising his hands. “Just the truth.”

Silence sits between them for a moment, and Bahorel studies her, wondering how Tholomyes could have treated someone so radiant and so full of love, as horrifically as he did. He puts a hand on her arm, meeting her gaze again.

“I know it’s something all men say,” he says, gentle. “And I’m not going to stand here and bore you with how much better I am than he was. But I won’t…I swear I won’t treat you like that. And I’m sorry he did.”

At this she takes his hand, pulling him out of the grove of trees and toward the beach.

“Let’s take a walk,” she says, that sparkle he saw when he first knocked on Valjean’s door shining in her eyes. He’s seen a similar one in Cosette’s and the thought warms him; the two of them survived so much, suffered so much, and yet here they are, loving all of them without fear, loving the world so much that they fight for people they know and people they’ve never met, every day, with every breath. The idea of Fantine’s unquenchable spirit trapped underneath the burden of slavery makes him burn with anger, and the fact that someone who once claimed to love her forced her into it only makes it grow hotter.

“What?” Fantine asks, noticing his expression.

“Nothing,” Bahorel says, squeezing her hand tighter, their eyes looking out at the bleeding red sunset, Orion appearing out near the dusky purple edges. “So. Is the next thing to find someone for Valjean?”

At this, Fantine chuckles, shaking her head.

“What?” Bahorel asks. “The man’s your dearest friend, isn’t he? Adopted father to your daughter. Don’t tell him I said so but Courfeyrac’s a good matchmaker, I’m sure we could set him on it.”

“Surely,” she says, grinning. “But I simply cannot picture it. He’s very set in his ways, which I’m sure you know, and he’s never shown much interest in that sort of thing. I think he’s perfectly content the way he is. But he’ll be happy for us, I think.”

They walk quietly for a few minutes, discarding their shoes, the water washing over their feet as they sink into the sand.

“Bahorel?” Fantine says, and Bahorel turns at the melancholy in her voice, the growing starlight running around the edges of her hair, illuminating her. He nods, indicating that he’s listening.

“I know you aren’t like Tholomyes,” she says, voice soft. “To him I was the exotic Maroon girl he wanted to sample. Cosette came from that, so I can never really regret it, but what drew me toward you was the sense that you cared for me because you like who I am, because we shared this same purpose.”

At this, Bahorel pulls her to him, and just by the way she rests her head on his shoulder, he senses he’s made the right choice.

“If I ever saw him I would sock him in the nose,” he says without an ounce of teasing.

“I’m first in line for that, I think,” she says, pulling back, hands resting in the crooks of his elbows.

At seeing the still slightly sad look in her eyes, Bahorel wants nothing more in the world than to hear her laugh. He puts his arms around her, lifting her up into the air and spinning her around, kicking up sand with his feet.

“Oh!” she says in surprise, but he hears the laugh building in her throat before it bursts out, joyous and unrestrained, echoing back against the sky. She throws her arms up into the air, trusting him not to drop her before putting them around his neck again so he can set her down. Bahorel’s about to speak again when he hears two very familiar voices just behind them.

“Pay up, Courfeyrac,” Bossuet says, and Bahorel turns, seeing the two of them standing a few feet away, having just approached the beach. “I was right.”

“Please tell me you weren’t spying on us,” Fantine says, trying very hard to glare at them, but failing, and she puts her hand back in Bahorel’s.

“Certainly not,” Courfeyrac says, affronted. “I am not a man to spy upon a romantic moment. But you are a bit out in the open.”

“Dare I ask what you were betting on?” Bahorel asks, watching Courfeyrac begrudgingly hand over the money.

“Bossuet said he thought when you two were missing from the tavern that you were out here,” Courfeyrac explains. “And I said that no, it would be at least another six months before you two admitted your feelings.”

“Are you a fortune teller now?” Bahorel asks, turning toward Bossuet.

“Intuition,” Bossuet says, winking. “I know an affair of the heart when I see one.”

“Suppose you can’t tease me anymore can you Courfeyrac?” Bahorel asks, reaching out and flicking his friend on the arm.

“Don’t be foolish,” Courfeyrac says, smirking. “I can tease you more.”

Bahorel reaches out, attempting to grab Courfeyrac’s hat as ransom, but misses, and Courfeyrac dashes off toward the tavern, Bossuet trailing behind.

“Sorry for the interruption,” he says, tipping his own hat and smiling at them before following Courfeyrac.

“Ah but where have we laid our affections?” Fantine says, eyes alight as she watches Bossuet and Courfeyrac go.

Bahorel turns her back around, slipping an arm around her waist, laying a finger on her lips.

“Just here, I think,” he says before kissing her again, the sea rushing up around their feet.

 


End file.
